


The Mysterious Case of the Moon's Destruction

by Juan_Pujol_Garcia



Category: The Mechanisms (Band)
Genre: Angst, Bertie lives AU, Canon-Typical Mechanisms Mayhem, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Mass Murder, M/M, Multi, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Temporary Character Death, kind of?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25652347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Juan_Pujol_Garcia/pseuds/Juan_Pujol_Garcia
Summary: War is never easy, of course, but it presented a rather unique challenge to Bertie. He didn’t know how much of a beating his body could take and wasn’t exactly eager to find out. At least the interminable, mind-numbing darkness made it easier to hide the wounds that would’ve put any other soldier down for the count. He wondered, sometimes, if it would be easier if he were alone. He wouldn’t need to play at normalcy, might be able to escape the guilt that accumulated in his bones with every comrade killed by an attack he may have survived. But these were only idle musings. He would not abandon Tim to face this hellscape alone.(Or, Bertie has a healing factor. This has...ramifications.)
Relationships: Bertie/Gunpowder Tim (The Mechanisms), Bertie/Jonny d'Ville/Gunpowder Tim, The Mechanisms Ensemble/The Mechanisms Ensemble
Comments: 42
Kudos: 184





	1. Chapter 1

Bertie O’Farrell had always known he was a little odd. It would’ve been quite difficult to not notice, with his family being the way they were. His ma always seemed to know when she was being lied to, while his mother had a strength that belied her tiny frame. His sisters were no different – Sinead never got lost no matter how far she wandered, while Claire would lurk underwater for hours to no ill effect. Bertie, for his part, healed far faster than the other children. His mothers first realized the extent of this talent when he broke his arm falling out of a tree at six. In mere hours, the bone was good as new. When Bertie complained about keeping the useless cast on for weeks, he received a gentle but firm lecture on the need for secrecy. 

As Bertie grew older, he began to understand the fear in his mothers’ eyes when they told him to never reveal what he could do. He was a well-read child, and a bright one: it didn’t take him long to realize just how horribly this little ability could backfire on him. From then on, he was a bit less reckless, a little more withdrawn. He spent less time looking for trouble outdoors and more time with his sketchbook. Despite this, he had a happy enough childhood, for the shadow of fear grew fainter as the years went by with his family’s secrets safe and sound.

Bertie first ran into Tim when they were both nine. More accurately, Tim ran into him, fleeing from a couple of very angry older boys. Bertie was knocked off balance in more ways than one. After a long moment lost in his bright hazel eyes, Bertie managed to process the ugly bruise forming around one and snap out of his daze. He grabbed Tim’s hand and led him into a bookstore whose owner knew him to wait them out. They got to talking, hidden in the maze of shelves, and hit it off right away. From that moment on, they were inseparable. 

Bertie’s family also adored Tim, and after a few years he all but lived with them. It didn’t take the community long to realize that if Tim and Bertie weren’t together, shenanigans were afoot. As they got older, Tim grew increasingly popular with the lads and ladies. Tim worried, sometimes, but Bertie reassured him he wasn’t jealous. Why would he be, when he knew how Tim cared for him? There was no romantic confession or dramatic realization, for the same reason no one makes a production of declaring the sky to be blue or the grass green.

Unfortunately, the year the two of them were to begin university was the year the Moon Kaiser built his infamous lunar canon. Conscription followed a few months later.

War is never easy, of course, but it presented a rather unique challenge to Bertie. He didn’t know how much of a beating his body could take and wasn’t exactly eager to find out. At least the interminable, mind-numbing darkness made it easier to hide the wounds that would’ve put any other soldier down for the count. He wondered, sometimes, if it would be easier if he were alone. He wouldn’t need to play at normalcy, might be able to escape the guilt that accumulated in his bones with every comrade killed by an attack he may have survived. But these were only idle musings. He would not abandon Tim to face this hellscape alone.

The only solace to be found was in his compatriots. There was Tim, of course, but there were a few others who lasted long enough for Bertie to grow fond of them. The first was Sergeant d’Ville. The man was, honestly, an utter bastard, but not many squads could say their commanding officer was willing to dirty his hands in the trenches like the rest of them. For all his reckless idiocy, he was lucky as hell, and he hadn’t gotten them killed yet. There was also his peculiar companion. Bertie wasn’t sure what to think about the self-proclaimed Toy Soldier. It vanished for months and returned in different uniforms. It seemed to have zero reservations about betraying its comrades in arms for a shiny spiked helmet or gleaming medals. It spoke with an eerily high and musical voice that didn’t match its almost wooden exterior. He didn’t voice any of his reservations. It kept finding its way back to them – well, back to d’Ville, anyway – and Bertie wasn’t about to reject an extra pair of hands to wrangle the lead sheet into place.

As the months of brutal tunnel warfare dragged on into years, Bertie doubted his secrecy. He knew how Tim worried, heard the concern in his voice after every close call – knew it mirrored his own. But how could Bertie come clean now? What would he even say that wouldn’t give false hope? In the pitch-black tunnels, pain briefly numbed by adrenaline, he didn’t even know how strong his healing factor actually was. Just because he  _ thought _ he had survived fatal wounds didn’t mean he was right. Bertie was no doctor, after all. He couldn’t bear the thought of lying to Tim about his own odds of survival, accidentally or not. And then there was Jonny to think about. It’s quite hard to have a private conversation in the trenches, after all, and the man had uncannily good ears. While their duo had functionally grown into a trio over the years, Jonny – and when had he become Jonny and not d’Ville? – was still unpredictable.

Bertie knew he was just making excuses, at this point, but he had no idea how to come clean. So he did not, and the war continued. Sometimes they whispered about desertion, about stealing a ship and running off into the stars together. It was never more than idle talk, never materialized into anything more than weak comfort shared in the dark. None of them knew how to fly a ship, after all. Even if they could figure it out, Bertie knew he couldn’t protect both Tim and Jonny long enough to get the chance. He might have tried anyway, if he hadn’t known Tim would never leave him behind.

The days blurred together, a monotonous stream of death and violence. The only real marker of time was the Toy Soldier’s increasingly rare appearances and the new accolades it had managed to gather in the interim. They hadn’t seen it in...months, maybe? - when a stray plasma shot tore through half their lead sheet. The thunderous sounds of battle seemed to fade out in a shared moment of silent horror. Broken, in the way of these things, by the unmistakable whine of a charging microwave cannon.

Bertie doesn’t stop to think. He grabs Tim with one arm and Jonny with the other and drags them both towards the nearest foxhole. Jonny apparently figures out his intent, by the way he starts swearing and struggling, but Bertie has always been the strongest of the three. He briefly gives thanks that Tim seems to be too in shock to put up a fight. 

The remains of the sheet will cover the foxhole entrance, if barely. It’s only big enough for two. The choice is - well, it’s not a choice at all. Bertie pushes his boys to safety and heaves the lead sheet into place.

Bertie braces the sheet with all his strength, feeling their struggles reverberate through the metal. He hopes they’ll have the sense to stop fighting when he’s - not capable of keeping them pinned. 

“Look out for each other, all right?” The pounding on the sheet intensifies, so. They probably heard him. 

The hum of the cannon reaches its peak. For a second, he thinks the weapon misfired, he doesn’t feel any - 

Everything hits at once. 

Overwhelming heat, his skin itching blistering burning then abruptly numb, a faint fizzling pop in his ears and he thinks distantly that he’s screaming but he can’t feel his own voice let alone hear himself the scent of burning hair overwhelmed by roasting meat is everywhere can’t tell which way is up or down or even if he's still on solid ground- 

Mercifully, the pain stops. 

Then there is only darkness.

_ -ond, I think thi-  _

_ -ill breathing, we nee- _

_ -lasma, gonna lose- _

Bertie wakes up with Tim’s screams still echoing in his ears. He...wakes up. How did he wake up? The brightness is overwhelming, painfully so. Which is a surprise, because he viscerally remembers his eyeballs boiling in their sockets before his nerves gave out. Bertie takes a deep breath. Antiseptic and bleach...a surface hospital? No, not with that faint rumbling - a medical ship. 

Well. Bertie supposes this answers the question of his mortality. 

If someone pulled him out, then surely Tim - isn’t here. Bertie sits up and scans the room, but finds no sign of him or Jonny. This isn’t necessarily cause for panic. Maybe Tim is just in a different room. Bertie preemptively starts timing his breaths, raising his hand to his neck to fidget with his dog tags. Which are...also absent. 

Bertie drags his IV stand over to the viewport. He takes a moment to appreciate the first sunlight he’s seen in years. Then he sees a light in his peripheral vision. He whips around, instinctively ducking from the muzzle flash.

Bertie turns just in time to see the Moon enveloped in a blast of light. He recoils, blinded, before being knocked off his feet as a shockwave sends the ship reeling. Bertie sprawls on the floor, trying to blink away the afterimages. When he can finally see again, he looks up. The Moon is gone.


	2. Chapter 2

It took forty-eight minutes for the government to release an official statement about the victory. A glorious victory, they proclaimed, made possible by the noble sacrifice of brave soldiers and loyal citizens. They claimed an elite strike force infiltrated the Kaiser’s palace and killed the despot with his own weapon. They declared the day a national holiday, to be celebrated every year hereafter. And, of course, they promptly began disbursing compensation to the millions of civilians whose families had paid for this victory with their lives.

Naturally, no one believed the official position on the moon’s demolition. The gaping holes in the story were too obvious. It didn’t take long for someone to leak what little information the government had for the people to analyze themselves.

With no dog tags to identify him and the military bureaucracy in complete disarray, Bertie managed to evade questions about his miraculous survival. He went home. His mothers fussed over him and his sisters - one granted scientific personnel exemption, the other discharged after an amputation. He knew he should feel lucky that all three of them survived, and swallowed his guilt at his ingratitude.

Bertie threw himself into an investigation. He could not afford to do otherwise. First, he went through the medical records. He scanned the lists of wounded taken on board medical ships, filtering out those that had been too close to the explosion. For days, he read page after page of names and serial numbers. There was no sign of Tim. He expanded the timeframe: his memories of his ‘death’ were scrambled, time was hard to track in the tunnels, maybe it was earlier than he thought. Still, there was nothing.

His last flicker of hope was extinguished; Bertie gave himself a week to mourn. It wasn’t nearly long enough. It could never be long enough.

After that week sitting shiva, Bertie went back to the leaked papers. He _needed_ to know what had happened. The least he could do for Tim’s memory was understand his death. If there was the slightest chance that the person responsible for this lived, he would make them pay. He brushed off his family’s worried gazes and gentle consolations and continued his work.

The fragmented and distorted transmissions from the last few weeks were impressively useless. The Kaiser’s transmissions were the standard propaganda, blathering on about his troops’ alleged victories and the ease with which they crushed their foes. As always, they devoted extra attention to the elaborate royal executions for high-ranking officers unlucky enough to be captured. Among the list of names was one Jonny d’Ville. Sergeants weren’t normally important enough to receive that sort of personal attention, but Bertie supposed Jonny had always had a gift for pissing people off. He downed a bottle of whiskey in his honor and continued. It felt appropriate, the way Jonny would have wanted him to mourn. At least he’d learned when to light a yahrzeit candle (he didn’t even have that much for Tim).

Intercepted Lunar troop communications painted a far darker picture. They detailed lines shattered, dust turned to mud with blood, and troops fried by their own commandeered microwave weapons.

The British recordings corroborated this story. The last few days before the explosion were full of hope and passion unlike anything Bertie had ever heard from the trenches. They spoke of ground gained and enemies slaughtered with a feral joy. Apparently, someone had managed to rally the troops. No one had managed to figure out who was responsible for this sudden about-face. There was general agreement that it was a low-ranking soldier – all transmissions from ranking officers were too blatantly confused about the situation. The name Tim was mentioned somewhat frequently throughout the transmissions. Despite his initial hopeful confusion, Bertie eventually dismissed it as a coincidence. Tim was a common name, after all. And he knew his Tim: knew him to be smart, capable, and mischievous, but never vicious. Never so cruel and bloodthirsty as the soldier – the warrior – described in the transmissions.

Bertie could find nothing more in the transmissions themselves. He moved onto the analyses and explanations devised by others seeking to understand what had happened on the moon. By then, the conspiracy theories had multiplied like weeds. Some thought the Kaiser finally snapped and decided to take the moon down with him, others that the cannon was flawed and self-destructed when fired. There was no real evidence for either of those theories. The most plausible theory floating around was that a coup attempt from his advisors went wrong. It held that the Kaiser had equipped his cannon with a dead man’s switch to discourage assassination attempts. Bertie thought that well within the bounds of the man’s despotism, but it was still conjecture.

As previously established, Bertie was not an idiot. He knew – had known for months at this point – that he was unlikely to ever find a concrete answer. However, to know something is not necessarily to accept it. And so Bertie continued to search. He would rather devote years to a fruitless search than to abandon it and spend the rest of his life wondering if there was something he’d missed, if the truth was _just_ beyond his grasp when he gave up.

Bertie moved on to the more fringe explanations. These were, overall, worse than useless. At least some of them were good for a laugh. Soldiers “captured” as part of an elaborate assassination attempt? A sleeper agent in the Kaiser’s personal guard? Mind control that turned his soldiers against each other? Given his family history, Bertie couldn’t truly rule out either, but the odds were unthinkably small.

The world had not stood still while Bertie searched. Unfortunately, the moon was rather important to maintain Earth’s status quo. Even with his laser focus Bertie couldn’t miss the catastrophic consequences. As superheated chunks of lunar rock battered cities and farmland, the airwaves filled with dire warnings of post-tidal mass extinctions and a newly unstable solar orbit.

Really, humanity’s exodus into the stars was inevitable.

Despite his sisters’ cajoling, Bertie did not leave with them. What was the worst that could happen, death? It seemed increasingly unlikely, as weeks of neglecting to eat or sleep added up without lingering consequences. There were still developments, however infrequent, so he remained determined. Occasionally, those devastating meteorites guarded salvageable scraps of lunar data. Almost nothing survived reentry.

 _Almost_ nothing. Through time, luck, and patience, Bertie managed to piece together a rather revealing bit of propaganda. It was a picture of the Moon Kaiser on his throne, surrounded by the ostentatious uniforms of his Gardes du Corps. When he first noticed it, Bertie thought he had finally snapped and begun hallucinating. But no. Once he realized what he was seeing, it was unmistakable. One of the Kaiser’s personal guards had a shockingly familiar mustache.

Bertie couldn’t stop laughing. Of course that fucking Toy Soldier had managed to find its way into the fanciest uniform available. Some of those ridiculous theories suddenly seemed rather reasonable. Mind control shmind control – the Toy Soldier had always obeyed Jonny, no matter how absurd his orders. And the announcement of Jonny’s execution was the last of the official Lunar transmissions. All Bertie could do was laugh. How very like Jonny to go out in a blaze of glory, by proxy or not.

So. Bertie had his answer, or the next best thing. It wasn’t as satisfying as he’d hoped. With nothing left to tie him to his dying planet, Bertie joined the last of the departing refugees. Full of grief for his loves and the life they had been denied, Bertie drifted off into the stars.


	3. Chapter 3

Bertie sits in the corner of a shitty dive bar. He stares numbly at his empty bourbon glass, trying to figure out whether another drink is worth the effort of getting up. He decides against it and leans back with a sigh, surveying the bar. It’s truly impressive how, spread across decades and galaxies, all these places still manage to look the same. The only even remotely unusual thing is the redhead across the room - books aren’t exactly standard accessories when drinking to forget.

Bertie doesn’t flinch as the door crashes open, just rolls his eyes at the pointless dramatics. He drums his fingers on the table idly as whoever just burst in stomps into the center of the bar and stops. Bertie sighs, recognizing the very distinctive pattern. Either the bar’s getting robbed or some drunk is about to treat them all to a lovely rant. There’s no way this place is worth robbing, so incoherent ramblings it is. Bertie braces himself for the inevitable dramatic monologue.

“Congratulations! This...pathetic excuse for a venue has been selected for the honor of a live performance! Be a good audience and maybe we won’t shoot you!”

And that - that’s impossible. Bertie hasn’t drunk enough to start hearing ghosts yet, but he recognizes that voice. He stares incredulously at the unmistakable figure.

“Jonny?”

The man goes dead still for a moment. Bertie’s mind is racing. How is Jonny here Jonny can’t possibly be here Jonny is  _ dead _ \- even if he hadn’t been executed (killed painfully and slowly the Kaiser had no preferred method just a favorite timespan) it had been - fuck, he didn’t even know how long anymore (four hundred twelve years six months thirteen -  _ stop it _ ) there was no goddamn way that it was Jonny standing in front of him right now.

Unless, of course, Jonny was just as immortal as Bertie.

And wasn’t that a thought? That maybe Jonny hadn’t been a reckless idiot with a death wish, but an undying soldier dropping by their war on a lark? The concept certainly gave his reckless tendencies a bit more perspective, however much they soured Bertie’s remembrance of him.

And it was bitter indeed, because if Jonny could not die - if he could not die and Bertie could not die - then maybe if Jonny had just fucking  _ talked to him _ (if Bertie had talked to him if Bertie had trusted his loves if if if) then - if it was only one person they truly needed to worry about, only one fragile and too-breakable mortal human, maybe between the two of them they could have gotten Tim out alive.

By the time Jonny - Jonny fucking d’Ville of all people - manages to turn and face him properly, Bertie’s fist is already in his face. 

Bertie feels Jonny’s cheekbone crack under his fist as he tackles him. Jonny’s gun (the same stupid revolver he’s always favored) goes skittering across the bar as the two of them hit the floor. Part of Bertie is fully aware that this is no way to greet a long-lost beloved, not a proper tearful reunion - but Jonny’s silence (Bertie’s secrecy) condemned Tim and Bertie can’t - Jonny is laughing. Jonny is fucking laughing. Bertie has him pinned to the ground, bloody hands around his neck, and the bastard is in hysterics like he’s never seen anything funnier in his centuries (millennia? How long has Jonny been alive? ( _ has he been alone _ ?)) of life. The cackling is familiar, sends Bertie back to some of the most futile pushes and pointlessly bloody maneuvers in the tunnels. He can’t see Jonny clearly through his tears but he feels him struggling for breath under his hands. Jonny’s still laughing, though, manic and desperate and clearly involuntary, and Bertie  _ needs it to stop _ .

Bertie squeezes, resting his full weight on Jonny’s throat, ignoring the hands clawing futilely at his arms until the laughter stops. All he can hear is his own ragged breathing and the pounding of his pulse. The bar has fallen silent as everyone pointedly minds their own business. The door creaks open, booted footsteps echoing unnaturally loudly. 

“What, already? You’re setting a new record here, Jonny, we haven’t even done anything yet!”

Bertie feels his heart drop out of his chest as he freezes. He knows that voice. It can’t be - but Jonny’s here, and that’s impossible, so maybe -

Bertie braces himself and looks up to see Tim. It’s elating, as the weight of  _ centuries _ of solitude, misery, and determination falls away in an instant. And yet. Something is wrong. Bertie would know Tim’s face anywhere, still knows it better than anything. But those  _ eyes _ \- the eyes that meet his are utterly alien. Most of their surface is an eerie teal, the texture unsettlingly flat and  _ wrong _ . There’s a hint of the original hazel in the pupils, but even those gleam with an unnatural brightness. None of it matters to Bertie. Tim has come back to him - they’ve found each other again - how could he care about why?

Bertie tries to speak, to tell Tim it’s really him, but he can’t form the words. His initial euphoria curdles as Tim remains utterly expressionless. Stillness and silence has never suited Tim, and Bertie’s stomach twists the longer it lingers. His voice continues to fail him under that cold, inhuman gaze. Does Tim not know him? Does he hate him for abandoning him, for leaving him to die alone in the dark?

Someone jostles Tim out of the doorway as they enter the bar. He seems to snap out of his stupor, right arm moving to do - something. Bertie can’t tear his eyes away from Tim’s. Focused as he is, it takes Bertie far too long to notice that Tim is drawing a gun. He yells at him to stop, staggering to his feet, but it’s too late. He watches helplessly as Tim -  _ his Tim _ , who was not dead - puts the pistol barrel to his temple and pulls the trigger.

Tim’s body crumples to the floor with a sickening thud. Bertie stares in disbelief. Distantly, he thinks he hears screaming - his own? He doesn’t know - what now? How can he - 

Someone is poking at Tim’s body, making comments in a chirpy voice. Bertie doesn’t hear any of the words but he’s just - prodding Tim, as if he’s nothing but empty meat as if he doesn’t matter at all and Bertie will  _ not _ let that stand. He thinks about going for the knife in his belt but there’s no time he’s already launching himself at the man, teeth bared, fists ready.

The man falls easily, clearly caught off guard. His head hits the ground with a loud crack. Bertie doesn’t stop, punching him again and again and - the man catches his fist. Prosthetic arm. Fuck. Can’t let him use that to gain the upper hand (hah. hand), so Bertie grabs the man’s hair with his free hand and slams his head into the ground repeatedly. There’s laughter again, different from Jonny’s this time, and Bertie can’t tell if it’s his own or that of some twisted bystander. The man’s gone still, but his metal grip is no looser for it, so Bertie starts trying to pry his hand free.

A hand grabs Bertie by the throat and lifts him. “I think that’s enough, don’t you?” Someone asks calmly. Bertie claws at the hand wildly and their grip on his windpipe tightens. His fingers skate off of metal as he tries to get free - if they’re strong enough to lift him like this it’s a futile effort.

“Keep him alive, Brian,” another unfamiliar voice chimes in from across the room. The person holding Bertie sighs and shifts his grip, one unyielding arm around his neck and one pinning his arms against his sides. Bertie kicks out, increasingly desperate as his vision starts to fade, but his boots just clang uselessly off of his captor. As he loses consciousness, Bertie could swear he sees Tim’s hand twitch.


	4. Chapter 4

Bertie wakes slowly. He squints at the blinding lights overhead and tries to sit up. It doesn’t work. Bertie forces down his panic as he processes that he’s strapped to a bed. Okay. This is...less than ideal. He shifts experimentally. All four limbs and his waist are bound to the cot with what feels like leather. Could be worse; metal would be harder to escape. He’s not fully prone either - the back of the cot is elevated, so Bertie can look around. It’s definitely a medical bay, if a somewhat unusual one. There’s an awful lot of security cameras, for one thing. The room lacks the cold white sterility he’s used to seeing in these places. Instead, it’s a bit of a mess - tools that look more suited to a mechanic’s shop scattered in haphazard piles, walls and floor dull, unpainted metal, and - is that a fucking violin? Bertie sees his knives and boots on the table next to him, just out of reach. He has not otherwise been unclothed, which is a bit of a relief.

His scan of the area is brought to an abrupt halt when Bertie realizes he is not alone. There is a person sitting in a chair a few meters from him. They look a bit familiar. They seem to be focused on the book in their hand, so maybe they haven’t noticed he’s awake just yet. After a moment’s scrutiny, he manages to place them as the redhead from the bar. 

...the bar. Bertie’s memory of - the past night? How long was he unconscious? Did he really see - Fuck it. It’s worth attracting their attention to maybe get some answers. Bertie clears his throat. “Where am I? And who are you?”

“You are currently in the medical bay of the Starship Aurora. I am the ship’s archivist. Ivy Alexandria, she/her.” She doesn’t look up from her book as she speaks, tone completely neutral. 

Bertie waits for some sort of actual explanation, but Alexandria does not elaborate. She quietly turns a page. “Right, then.” He supposes that’s technically all he asked for. “And _why_ am I on your ship? Where -” he swallows the bile that rises in his throat as he remembers the sight of Tim’s body collapsing to the floor, the feeling of Jonny’s neck crushed under his hands. “...is. Is Jonny here?” Don’t think about it don’t panic if he made it this long - if they _both_ made it this long - “Is Tim…” Bertie’s voice breaks before he can articulate the question.

When he manages to blink away his tears, Alexandria is actually looking at him. He can’t decipher her expression. “Jonny and Tim are the reason we have brought you on board. They are both alive.” 

Bertie lets out a shaky exhale as the relief floods through him. They are alive. “Can I see them? Why the restraints?” He lifts his right arm demonstratively.

“No. You will be kept sequestered here until your identity can be verified.” 

Bertie stares at her. “Verified? What, do you want my fucking life story?” He’d give it to her in a heartbeat, if it meant he could see his loves again.

Alexandria tilts her head to the side slightly. “That would be useful, but insufficient. Our science officer is working on an array of tests to ascertain that you are who you appear to be and determine that you are not a threat to this crew.”

Bertie suppresses a twinge of fear at the mention of this “science officer”. Tests are not the same thing as experiments, don’t leap to conclusions… “I don’t understand. Who else would I be? What have I done to make you think I’m a threat?”

“X-rays and MRIs have already demonstrated that you are not a Mechanism. Therefore, we will not be torturing you.” Bertie gapes at Alexandria, but she doesn’t give him time to unpack that statement. “That is standard procedure for a new crew member of uncertain origin, but as you are not a Mechanism, the high probability of crew members becoming distressed by your screams outweighs the potential benefits of testing you for bioprogramming in such a manner.” 

There’s...a lot there. Bertie doesn’t even know where to start. Alexandria continues, either unaware of or indifferent to his stunned silence. “While preparations for those tests are underway, would you care to enter your testimony into the archive?”

Alexandria is quiet, watching him, so apparently she actually wants a response to this. “The archive?” Bertie asks.

Alexandria nods. “As the ship’s archivist, I maintain a collection of books, stories, and other artifacts from our travels. Your experiences, if you are who you appear to be, would be a valuable addition.” 

Well, why not. “Sure, I can...give you my statement,” Bertie says. He thinks Alexandria seems pleased, but he can’t say for sure. “Think you could untie my arms so I can type?”  
  
  


“That is unnecessary. Oral testimony is sufficient.” She closes her book and sits attentively, waiting.

Bertie frowns, about to ask, then remembers the cameras. Well, if Alexandria wants to go through the trouble of getting the security footage formatted appropriately, that’s her choice. Bertie clears his throat, takes a moment to organize his thoughts, and begins.

-

Bertie’s not sure how long he talks. Not quite long enough for his voice to start fading, but long enough that it seems to take forever. After only a few minutes he sits back and closes his eyes, so he doesn’t have to meet Alexandria’s gaze while he spills his guts. He starts skimming over the decades after he lost contact with the last of his great-grandniblings. There just wasn’t much in his life worth remembering then. 

Bertie falters when he reaches the bar, struggling to put the tumultuous emotions into words. He looks at Alexandria again, but she doesn’t seem inclined to have mercy on him. “...you were there for that part,” he eventually manages, refusing to wince at her unimpressed eyebrow raise. 

The door on the far left wall slides open with a pneumatic hiss and a mechanical chime. Bertie turns and gapes at the _winged_ person that bursts through, brimming with manic energy. 

“Hello! I need a cheek swab and a blood sample, please,” they say brightly, sweeping across the room to greet Alexandria with a kiss before turning to Bertie with quick, calculating eyes. “Raphaella la Cognizi, Science Officer. She/her.”

“Bertie, he/him. Why do you need those?” Bertie asks, trying to keep his wariness out of his voice. 

This is apparently the right question. La Cognizi beams at him, metallic feathers ruffling almost soundlessly. “Oh, you know. The usual! Blood typing, DNA analysis, scanning for signs of histone three lysine nine trimethylation-targeted demethylase injection, basic epigenetic profile. Pretty standard identity verification and clone identification tests.”

“...standard. Right,” Bertie says faintly. He frowns. “Wouldn’t you need something to compare it to, though? What good’s the data without a baseline?”

“Well, ideally we’d have samples from Bertie-prime - oh, don’t make that face, we’re not saying you aren’t Bertie-prime just yet! - but I can certainly make do with your earlier medical records and generalized data about humans from your time and reality.” La Cognizi glances at Alexandria for a moment, then turns back to Bertie with a surprisingly pleading expression. “So. May I have your permission to take the samples I need?”

“What happens if I say no?” Bertie asks. Something about the emphasis she placed in that sentence was a bit concerning.

“Well. I’ll be very sad, for one,” la Cognizi says. “Given that the odds are -” she turns back to Alexandria.

“27% chance of him being who he claims to be, 83% chance of him becoming crew regardless,” Alexandria states, once again focused on her book.

“- right, that! High probability of you becoming crew means I need to use my scientific ethics and get informed consent and all that.” She waves a hand dismissively. “No fun with crew without the latter, on pain of airlocking.”

Well. There is an awful lot to unpack there, and Bertie feels up to precisely none of it. Fortunately, he doesn’t need to for the one question that really matters. “Once you’re satisfied that I’m not lying, you’ll let me see Tim and Jonny?”

His heart plummets when la Cognizi just seesaws her hand instead of nodding. “It’s a bit more complicated than that! They’re both, ah. Let’s say...having a bit of a time? Understandably.”

“Yes. I am also having something of a fucking time right now,” Bertie grits out. Snapping at her is unlikely to get him anywhere. He needs to remain calm. 

“Once the tests are complete, you will be free to wander the ship,” Alexandria says. “Tim and Jonny will make their way to you when they feel emotionally prepared. Or someone will shoot them and deliver them to you if they’re being unreasonable about it. Could go either way. The important thing is, yes, if you are indeed who you claim to be and not a threat, you will eventually see them.”

Bertie sighs, head falling back against the cot. The terms aren’t exactly ideal...but then again, it’s more than he ever thought he could have just a few hours ago. “Fine. Do whatever tests you need.”

“Excellent! This won’t take long,” la Cognizi reassures him. She takes the samples with practiced efficiency. “Ivy, I’m requisitioning you as lab assistant. Someone will come by with food shortly,” she informs Bertie briskly.

La Cognizi grabs Alexandria’s arm, careful to not jostle her book, and drags her out of the room. They’re gone before Bertie has a chance to ask - well, anything. He lies prone on his cot, utterly alone.


End file.
